


Road Not Taken

by theimprobable1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:03:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimprobable1/pseuds/theimprobable1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock decides to give up detective work and move to the country to keep bees, John finally has to acknowledge everything he's been trying not to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road Not Taken

John lets himself in with the key he still has. He doesn’t ring the doorbell and he doesn’t call for Sherlock, in case Emily is asleep. He climbs the seventeen steps and opens the door quietly – and is surprised to find Molly sitting on the sofa, leaning against the foldable travel cot Sherlock had got for Emily with a dreamy expression on her face. She looks up when she hears him enter.

“John, hi!” she says quietly. “Emily’s sleeping.”

“Molly.” John looks around the flat, noting the distinct absence of Sherlock.

“Sherlock just went downstairs to help Mrs Hudson with her new computer, don’t worry, he didn’t just leave me alone with her!”

“Oh, right.” John looks at his sleeping daughter, pleased to see that she looks comfortable and well cared-for.

“She’s so beautiful, John,” Molly tells him, and John can’t help but beam at her proudly.

“Yeah, I know. So, have you come round to admire her, or…?”

“Oh no, I just brought Sherlock some skin samples. He was pretty reluctant to leave me with her even just to go downstairs, he’s so protective of her.”

“He is, isn’t he? He adores her. Who would’ve guessed, right? Sherlock Holmes and a baby.”

“Well,” Molly smiles, “she’s yours. I’d say that makes a world of difference.”

“Yeah, but even so,” John says, looking at Emily again. “I didn’t expect him to be so… _involved_. Babysitting and analysing different brands of formula and god knows what else.” John was a bundle of nerves the first time they left Emily alone with Sherlock, but Mary was sure it would be all right, and she was right. Sherlock was probably better at it than John was, in all honesty.

Molly’s quiet for a little too long, and when John looks back at her, her soft eyes are focused on him and the expression on her face shocks John with something like despair.

“You really have no idea, do you?” she breathes. “No idea at all.”

John wants to be somewhere else, anywhere, just away from the sad look in Molly’s eyes and the dread trying to settle in his stomach.

“No idea about what?” he asks despite himself. He doesn’t want to look at her but he does anyway.

She looks at him almost pleadingly for a moment, but then she starts and curls in on herself a little.

“I’m sorry, forget I said anything. You know me, I talk rubbish all the time, I never think before I speak.” She stands up hurriedly. “I should go. Lovely to see you, John!”

In the doorway she nearly collides with Sherlock who has just come up.

“Oh, Sherlock, sorry. I have to run. I’ll see you soon.” She stands on her tiptoes to give him a brief, awkward hug, and it’s obvious that hugging isn’t something they usually do. “Bye, John.”

She all but runs out of the flat, and Sherlock looks after her in confusion.

“What did you say to her?” he asks John.

“Nothing! I don’t know what came over her,” John says, and it’s true. He doesn’t.

Sherlock frowns at him but doesn’t say anything, opting to check on Emily instead.

“You’re early,” he tells John in an accusatory tone. “She’s only been asleep for 22 minutes. You’ll have to wait until she wakes up.”

Sherlock ushers him to the kitchen so that their voices don’t wake the baby.

“So you’ve roped Molly into bringing you samples all the way home, huh?” John asks as Sherlock makes tea.

“Of course not. She offered. We… she comes over sometimes to help with experiments.”

“Oh? That’s nice,” John says hesitantly. It’s good for Sherlock to have a friend, of course, but it seems a little odd, and John wonders if there’s a hidden motive somewhere. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Mmm. Sometimes we get take-away afterwards,” Sherlock adds as he places a steaming cup of tea in front of John. A sharp feeling shoots through John, and it’s ridiculous, because of course there’s no reason why he should be the only one allowed to eat take-away with Sherlock. Which they haven’t done in a while, incidentally, so it’s good that Sherlock has someone else to spend time with. It’s good.

“For God’s sake, John. Surely you noticed her ludicrous infatuation with me has long passed. No need to be worried about her feelings,” Sherlock says, completely misinterpreting John’s silence.

“If you say so,” John placates him, not wanting to argue or examine his feelings. He takes a sip of his too-hot tea and notices a stack of leaflets on the table.

“Beehives?” he asks, reaching for one of the leaflets. “Are you working on the case of the murdered queen bee?”

When Sherlock doesn’t answer, John looks up and finds him looking at him with an odd expression on his face. 

“It’s not for a case,” Sherlock says, and his expression is no longer odd – now it’s the well-known mask he puts on when he wants to appear emotionless. “I’ve decided I want to keep bees.”

“Bees? _Here?_ Does Mrs Hudson know?”

“Of course not here,” Sherlock says like John’s insane, looking somewhere over John’s shoulder. “I’m stopping detective work and moving to the country.”

It hits John like a bucket of cold water.

“ _What?_ Why?”

Sherlock looks him in the eye then. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t, and you know I hate it when…”

“Yes, you do,” Sherlock interrupts him. “You’re a father now, John. No matter how much you enjoy it, it’s no longer acceptable for you to risk your life on a regular basis, not when there’s a child dependent on you. You know that; it’s why the only cases you have joined me on since Emily was born were the boring ones.”

John stares at him. Of course Sherlock is right – John has spent several sleepless nights worrying about exactly this problem. But that’s no reason for such… drastic measures, surely.

“That’s no reason for you to stop doing what you love!”

“Isn’t it? At this rate, I estimate you’ll last two months before you’re unable to resist the temptation any longer. And even if you don’t,” Sherlock says as John opens his mouth to protest, “just count the number of times your association with me has made you a target. Mary’s unfortunate past already places your family under threat should it be discovered;” - John pretends not to flinch; Sherlock pretends not to notice - “do you really think I wish to add to that?”

John has no idea how to react to that.

“And it didn’t occur to you that you should maybe _tell me_ that you want to give up your work _because of me_?” John asks, settling for the familiarity of anger.

“I _am_ telling you,” Sherlock points out. “Honestly, John, I don’t see what you’re so worked up about. Nothing will change for you. I’m looking at properties within a reasonable driving distance from your place, so I’ll always be on hand if you need babysitting or – anything. And of course you – all three of you – will be just as welcome there as you are here.”

John doesn’t know what to say. Sherlock Holmes, willingly stop being consulting detective? It makes no sense. 

Before John can come up with something to say, Emily whimpers a little in the living room and then starts crying properly, and Sherlock scowls at John.

“You woke her,” he says, and goes to her before John can even stir.

***

John can’t help but think about Sherlock for the rest of the day, a vague sense of unease churning in his stomach.

It feels so wrong, John thinks as he brushes his teeth. Sherlock loves his work (he’s married to his work), he shouldn’t have to give it up. His arguments are sound, granted, but they’re something John should have to deal with, not Sherlock.

It wouldn’t be the first time, though, would it, that Sherlock decided to do what he felt was best for John regardless of negative consequences for himself. He almost went off on a suicide mission just so John could live with a woman he’d barely managed to forgive.

That was Sherlock’s doing too, really – if Sherlock hadn’t taken such a charitable view of Mary’s nearly killing him, John would never have found it in himself to forgive her. He could stomach Mary lying to him – she was hardly the first one, after all – but this? Now, still, months after he’d made his decision, the thought made his blood run cold. It was Sherlock’s capacity to forgive, not John’s, that saved John’s marriage.

John’s marriage – something John would never have thought Sherlock could be supportive of, and yet he is. John can barely think of Sherlock’s best man speech without coming dangerously close to tearing up, even though he’s not sure how much of it Sherlock actually meant. Sometimes John thinks nothing – that it was all an act, Sherlock performing the role of best man to perfection.

Other times, he thinks – but no, not really, he doesn’t really think about that, he does his best not to think about it because then a memory comes to his mind unbidden, of the night of the wedding and a look on Sherlock’s face that John thinks he was never meant to see, and it’s better not to think about it.

But maybe he should – maybe that’s what Molly meant – because Sherlock’s work used to be the most important thing in his life, and if he’s willing to give it up then it clearly isn’t anymore, and John doesn’t know what to do with the implication.

***

“You’re really sure you want to do it?” 

“I’m not house-hunting just pass the time,” Sherlock says as he hands John a cup of tea and sits down in his chair opposite him. John wonders how many times more they’ll be able to sit like this, in their chairs in 221B. “I thought you agreed that it’s the only way.”

“But you… you love this work. Won’t you be bored?”

Sherlock shrugs, looking into his cup of tea.

“I’m not saying I won’t miss it,” he says. “But it’s time to do something different now. I’ll find ways to occupy myself.”

“Okay, but why the country? You love London.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says simply, “but I find myself wanting… quiet. Away from all those _people_.”

“Sherlock Holmes wants peace and quiet?”

Sherlock chuckles, self-deprecating. “The world must be ending.” He hesitates, then adds, “Of course, if the location isn’t… that is, I know you like to get out of the city from time to time and it would be good for Emily to get some fresh air sometimes, but if it’s inconvenient I can find another place in London, it’s perfectly possible to keep bees in a city, so…”

“Sherlock, it will be _your_ home,” John cuts him off, because he just can’t bear to hear him go on. “You need to choose according to what _you_ want. It won’t matter to me if it takes a little longer to get there as long as you like it.”

Sherlock looks at him then.

“But you realise there won’t be any cases.”

“Yeah, I did manage to get that was the point,” John retorts, but then he realises what Sherlock means: he thinks that without cases, John won’t have much reason to want to see him. He’s suddenly reminded of the day when he asked Sherlock to be his best man, and the discovery that he was John’s best friend shocked Sherlock speechless. John’s heart twists. “That’s not going to stop me from visiting you, you know,” he says in a falsely light tone. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t set a Grade II listed cottage on fire.”

Sherlock gives him a small smile and reaches for his laptop.

“Come have a look.”

John get up from his comfortable chair rather reluctantly and perches on the arm of Sherlock’s chair.

“See,” Sherlock turns the screen towards John, showing him a floor plan. “This could be your bedroom – and Mary’s, of course, and this one would be Emily’s, when she’s old enough. They’re a bit small, but…”

“I’m sure they’ll be more than sufficient,” John interrupts him, feeling a little… well, touched. The house has three bedrooms upstairs, a kitchen, dining room and lounge downstairs – it’s entirely too big for one person, but that seems to be the point: the life Sherlock’s planning for himself is simply _weird_ , but he’s making sure there’s room for John and his family. John has no idea what to say to that, so he just looks at the screen instead, scrolling through the photos of the cottage. It’s lovely, really, but very… cottage-y, and decidedly un-Sherlock-like.

“You don’t like it,” Sherlock says, watching his face.

“No, that’s not… It’s lovely, I just… can’t imagine you actually living there.”

Abruptly, Sherlock slams the laptop shut and gets up, stalking to the window.

“You have your own life; why is it so hard to imagine I might want one too?!”

“No, I just…” John stammers, a little surprised by the outburst.

“I can’t live here anymore, don’t you see? It was tolerable when I still had the work, but without it it’s unbearable. I need something completely different, away from… all this.” Sherlock drags his fingers through his hair, looking frustrated and ill at ease. 

John doesn’t know what Sherlock means by “all this”, but then again, maybe he does. He couldn’t bear to live in 221B without Sherlock either. This is different, of course, because John isn’t dead (or pretending to be dead), but… he remembers that time Sherlock moved John’s chair away, and for the first time he wonders if maybe Sherlock just couldn’t bear to see it empty

***  
Sherlock does buy the cottage. It’s just inside Kent, forty minutes from John’s nearest train station, a little less by car. Sherlock has the dining room converted into a lab just as he wanted, and seems actually excited about moving, which eases somewhat John’s feeling of unease about the whole thing.

John stops by at Baker Street two days before Sherlock’s planning to move permanently – he feels a little nostalgic, and wants to use one of his last opportunities to spend time there.

Once again, he’s surprised to find a woman watching over a sleeping person, except this time the woman is Janine and the one asleep is Sherlock – with his head in her lap.

“Hi, John!” Janine whispers, her fingers carding through Sherlock’s curls. “Don’t wake him, he needs his beauty sleep.”

John stares.

“Relax, we’re just friends now,” she grins at him, as if it’s all some sort of joke. John certainly feels like he’s the butt of it. He looks at Sherlock’s face, relaxed and soft in his sleep, and it’s just so entirely _wrong_. How can Janine be friends with him after what he did to her? 

“Right,” John says, not really very loudly, but Janine still glares at him.

What even happened in that pretend relationship? How is it possible that Sherlock is so physically comfortable with her? Lets her stroke his hair as he slept? Is this some sort of ruse again? Sherlock would never do this with John.

He lifts his gaze from Sherlock’s face and notices Janine watching him with an amused expression.

“What?” he says defensively.

Fortunately, he is saved from Janine’s reaction, which he has a feeling he wouldn’t like, by Sherlock’s abrupt return to consciousness. He sighs deeply and opens his eyes, then sits up immediately.

“John,” he says, and it’s a bit funny how he tries to sound serious even though his voice is rough with sleep and his hair is tousled and there is a Union Jack imprint on his cheek.

“Morning,” John says, despite the fact that it’s four in the afternoon.

Sherlock seems to remember Janine is there then, and John is gratified to notice it makes him a little flustered. Janine beams at them like the cat that got the cream. What on earth is wrong her?

“Excuse me,” Sherlock mumbles, and escapes to the bathroom.

“Sooo,” Janine smiles at John. “How are you looking forward to country life?”

“It’s Sherlock who’s moving, not me,” John points out. _Because I’m married. To your friend. You were at our wedding, for God’s sake,_ he wanted to continue, because surely _Mary’s bridesmaid_ couldn’t possibly be suggesting what he thought she was.

“Oh, but don’t tell me you’re not going to spend every free moment there,” she says, and her tone is still jocular, but her eyes aren’t. 

John blinks at her, unsure what to say or what she even _means_. Why is it that Molly and Janine seem to know about Sherlock that John doesn’t?

Sherlock comes back from the bathroom looking a little more like himself.

“Well, I should get going,” Janine says, getting up from the sofa. Sherlock smiles at her, clearly uncomfortable but nevertheless genuine.

“Thank you,” he says in a low voice, and John realises suddenly that _he_ is the source of Sherlock’s discomfort, that Sherlock’s… whatever he has with Janine is something Sherlock never wanted him to find out about – and not because it’s pretence, but because it’s real.

“Well, don’t forget that now you owe me,” Janine says, poking Sherlock in the chest. “ _And_ that I’m invited to the housewarming party.”

“There isn’t going to be a housewarming party.”

Janine leans in and whispers something in Sherlock’s ear.

“You are incredibly devious,” Sherlock tells her.

“Isn’t that why you like me?” Janine says playfully, and then turns to John. “Give my love to Mary, John, I haven’t seen her in ages! And your little one, of course.” She pats Sherlock’s arm, and leaves.

“So,” John says when Sherlock closes the door, “what _was_ that?”

“That was Janine, and it’s impolite to refer to people as ‘what’.”

“Yeah, so that should be indication enough I wasn’t referring to her,” John rolls his eyes. “She says you’re friends now.”

Sherlock shrugs, not meeting John’s eyes. “We have a mutually satisfactory relationship.”

 _So, what, she strokes your hair and then you_ owe her _for it?_ John wants to say, but doesn’t, because what if it’s exactly that? It’s ridiculous, he tells himself immediately, complete nonsense, but the idea is so shocking that John can’t shake it off soon enough, and Sherlock clearly misinterprets his stunned expression.

“It’s not…” Sherlock starts, then clears his throats. “I know a lot of people, and Janine finds some of my contacts useful. That’s all.”

“And… and she…?” John asks, unable to articulate the question properly.

Sherlock turns his back to him, moving erratically.

“Well, you… saw,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the sofa. “I—it helps me relax.” He begins gathering letters from the mantelpiece and throws them into an already overflowing cardboard box with shaky hands – he looks so acutely embarrassed John feels the need to look away in sympathy, but he can’t – he’s too busy staring. 

“Helps you relax,” he repeats. 

“Physical contact has scientifically proven stress-reducing effects, as well as several other health benefits. As a doctor you should know that. Tea?”

Physical contact. John’s mind reels. It just never occurred to John, not even during the time when he thought Sherlock and Janine were really dating, that Sherlock could be the type of person to enjoy physical affection, to draw comfort from it. But apparently he is. Only he’s felt more comfortable sharing this part of himself with a woman who sold lies about him to tabloids (not exactly harmful lies, granted, but lies nevertheless) rather than with John.

It’s just wrong. It should be John, shouldn’t it? Not that the idea of stroking Sherlock's hair doesn’t seem completely weird, and it’s not something John would ordinarily do, but… That’s the problem, isn’t it? Sherlock could hardly have thought John would welcome it.

“I… didn’t realise you were… interested in that sort of thing,” John says carefully.

“I don’t know if I’ve got any milk,” Sherlock ignores him, moving to the kitchen. John follows him, feeling awkward and sad at the same time.

“Sherlock,” John says softly, reaching to touch Sherlock’s arm, but Sherlock flinches as if John had shouted.

“I don’t need your _pity_ ,” he snarls, moving brusquely out of John’s reach. He takes a shaky breath. “We’ll have the tea black,” he says, his voice forcedly calm.

John takes the hint, and they don’t talk about it.

***  
There is, in the end, a housewarming party. John spends most of it watching Molly and Janine, who chat quietly in the corner, and wonders if they’re talking about Sherlock, since they clearly know more about how Sherlock feels than John does. Mary and Sherlock have an excessively polite argument about whether or not someone should go to Emily every time she cries, but side together against Mrs Hudson in a debate about whom Emily resembles more (Mrs Hudson thinks Mary, Mary and Sherlock think John). Sherlock ends up delivering a whole lecture on every feature of Emily’s face that (according to him) looks exactly like John’s, or scientifically likely to come to look exactly like John’s in time. John wants to hide his face in his hands, wondering when, exactly, Sherlock started wearing his heart on his sleeve, and why on earth it has taken John so long to see it (or to acknowledge that he sees it, which might be closer to the truth).

The day ends with Greg and Molly getting caught _in flagrante_ in the shiny new lab, which apparently surprises no one except for John (Sherlock and Janine especially look very smug). John is not surprised that he’s surprised, though – clearly he’s spectacularly bad at seeing this sort of thing, whether it concerns other people or himself.

The Watsons stay for the night, while the others go home. The guest room looks a lot like John’s bedroom in 221B, except the bed is a double and there’s a dressing table in one corner. John stares at the slanted ceiling as he lies in bed, listening to the eerie quiet of the countryside, and tries to make sense what his life has become: he’s married with a baby, living in the suburbs and working the regular shifts of a GP, and Sherlock’s moved to a country cottage, exchanged criminals for bees and spends a lot of his time researching nursery schools. It seems so outlandish he has trouble accepting it’s real.

“Do you think…” John whispers in the dark, but cuts himself off, unsure how he wants the sentence to end.

“Mmm?” Mary prompts him sleepily, shuffling closer to him.

 _Do you think Sherlock is in love with me?_ he wants to ask. He wants Mary to laugh at his ridiculous ideas and tell him to go to sleep. Failing that, he wants her to tell him _of course he is, took you long enough,_ just so that he can stop worrying that maybe he’s imagining things, and what it says about him if he is, or what it means that he worries Sherlock being in love with him might be a product of his own imagination. But that doesn’t seem like something he should be talking to his wife about, of all people.

“Do you think he’ll be happy here?” he says eventually, because in the end that’s the one thing that matters, but Mary is already asleep. 

***

They see each other fairly often – about once a week, Sherlock comes over to babysit, and if the weather’s nice John, Mary and Emily will spend Saturdays at the cottage, profiting of the country air and the nearby woods. Sherlock seems happy enough with the arrangement – he and Emily adore each other as much as ever, and his new, quieter life seems to be doing him good. John tries to like it, he really does, but it just… _grates_. They’re supposed to be Sherlock and John, the two of them against the world, but instead it’s John and his family, occasionally joined by an eccentric but doting uncle. It’s just wrong, and John hates himself for thinking that. He should be happy. It feels ungrateful not to be happy when Sherlock has done… everything for him. And yet.

Things probably wouldn’t have been very different if Sherlock had stayed at Baker Street, John muses one day during his morning walk, about two months after Sherlock had moved. Not even if he’d stayed a detective, since John really couldn’t join him anymore. But it would be… less obvious, somehow. 

Maybe that’s exactly what Sherlock needed, though: to make it obvious, to himself and to everyone else, that his and John’s life are two separate entities now. Maybe he needed to make a clean break so that he could… move on.

Immediately, John dislikes the idea. And it’s horrible of him, isn’t it, because it’s not like he wants Sherlock to… pine for him, or live the rest of his life nursing a broken heart. It would be a _good_ thing for Sherlock to move on, because John is married. And not gay. And in love with Mary. He can’t return Sherlock’s feelings.

Unbidden, a vision of an alternative life: one where he had never met Mary, one where, maybe, Sherlock had never jumped. If there had been no Mary and no Emily when John discovered the reality of Sherlock’s feelings for him, what would he have done? And he knows, suddenly but with a bone-deep certainty, that he would have gone for it. Faced with such ample evidence of Sherlock’s devotion, he would have thrown everything he’d ever thought he knew about himself to the wind and gone for it, accepted any kind of relationship Sherlock might possibly want.

The realisation slams through him, hard enough to stop him in his tracks. It doesn’t change anything about the current situation, of course it doesn’t. He doesn’t regret marrying Mary, and he could never, ever regret having Emily. But even so, it feels like the entire world has shifted. He stands in the middle of the street, mind reeling as a chasm of roads not taken opens up before him.

Without even consciously deciding to do it, he turns, and instead of going home, he walks towards the train station. He doesn’t know what he wants to do, but he misses Sherlock with a sudden fierceness, and he needs to see him. He isn’t going to _do_ anything. Just see him. Just see him. Sherlock.

He texts Mary on the train. Her reply comes a few minutes later, but he doesn’t read it. He spends the train ride on the edge of his seat, not knowing what to do with himself.

***

Sherlock doesn’t answer the door, and it occurs to John for the first time that he may not be at home. He tries the bell again.

“Go away, I’m busy!” Sherlock’s voice comes from the depths of the house, and John smiles to himself. He leans against the doorbell and waits until the shrill noise irritates Sherlock enough to come to the door.

“For god’s sake, are you—“ Sherlock’s rant starts even before he opens the door, but it dies on his tongue. “John.”

“Hi,” John says, and realises belatedly that for all his complicated thoughts he hadn’t actually considered what he wanted to say to him.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks, his eyes moving quickly over John’s face almost anxiously, searching for clues.

“Nothing,” John assures him quickly. “I just… wanted to see you.”

Sherlock frowns. “Come in, then.”

The door falls shut behind them, and John acts on instinct: he reaches for Sherlock, and pulls him into a hug.

It’s obvious how unexpected it is for Sherlock – theirs has never been a demonstrative friendship, even though now John thinks maybe Sherlock would have liked that. His hands come up to rest on John’s back only haltingly, and John realises that it’s not very nice of him – it might make him feel better, but probably only makes things worse for Sherlock. But before he can convince himself to pull away, Sherlock’s arms tighten around him, holding him close. He smells like home.

It is of course supremely awkward when they break apart. John clears his throat, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

“I, uh, sorry if it’s inconvenient, I suppose you’re busy,” he says, noticing Sherlock’s open laptop and papers strewn across the coffee table.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says. “I think I’ve made it sufficiently clear that you’re always welcome.”

“So, what are you working on?” John asks, trying for a casual tone.

“Just typing up some notes,” Sherlock waves his hand. “John, what is this about?”

John can’t tell him, of course – he’d only give him more reasons for regret.

“Just… missing the old times, I suppose.” 

Sherlock keeps frowning at him and John looks around instead of at him, noting that there’s significantly more mess than when he comes announced. Clearly Sherlock’s housekeeper (an actual housekeeper this time) only comes over before Sherlock’s expected visitors are due.

“You and Mary aren’t fighting,” Sherlock says, and John mentally tells himself off for not realising there was no way he could make this visit seem normal. 

“It’s nothing to do with Mary, everything’s fine, really, I just… missed you.”

Something twitches in Sherlock’s face and he turns away abruptly.

“You haven’t even had breakfast,” he says, and walks to the kitchen.

“Yeah, uh, spontaneous decision,” John says as he follows him. “So, how are the bees?” He couldn’t care less about the bees, but Sherlock always gets excited when he talks about them, and it’s a joy to see. John wants to look at him, and look at him, and look at him.

“They’re fine,” Sherlock says as he slots two slices of bread into the toaster. “And so am I, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” John says automatically.

“Good.”

“So you’re…happy, here,” John gestures vaguely towards the window.

“It’s far from Mycroft,” Sherlock flashes him a grin over his shoulder. John returns it, but only briefly.

“Seriously, though. Is this what you wanted it to be?”

Sherlock is quiet for a few seconds, and then he turns to face John properly, a rare, open look on his face, and he says, “Yes.”

It’s a relief, knowing that Sherlock has found contentment in his secluded life, of course it is, but it also stings a little that apparently John is the only one who misses their old life.

“I know you miss the excitement,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, his back to John as he takes out a plate, “and a reclusive beekeeper can hardly be any use to you in this respect. I’m sorry I couldn’t think of a better alternative.”

He puts the plate of toast and a cup of tea in front of John, and immediately turns his back to him again, searching for butter and marmalade in the fridge. John doesn’t know what to say to him, how to explain that that’s not it at all.

“Sherlock…” he starts, but doesn’t know how to continue.

“It’s easier, here,” Sherlock says softly.

“What is?”

“You know what, John, it’s why you’ve come,” Sherlock says, exasperated. “So spare us the awkwardness and don’t make me say it. I’m fine, and you’ll be too once you get one of those A&E jobs you’ve been looking at.” 

John hasn’t told Sherlock about that – that he’s been looking for a slightly less mind-numbing job than a general practice – but it doesn’t surprise him that Sherlock knows. And anyway, that’s not the point: the point is the sudden shift in the atmosphere between them, because Sherlock has gone and done it – acknowledged the unacknowledgeable. It’ here in the room with them now, the cavernous depth of Sherlock’s feelings for John; unnamed but impossible to ignore now that they have been referred to out loud.

Sherlock pushes a jar of orange marmalade towards John – without peel, the kind Sherlock doesn’t like. John looks at him, expecting him to avoid his gaze, but Sherlock doesn’t. He looks at John defiantly, his jaw set tight, as if daring John to say anything, waiting for a blow. John looks at him and it’s like seeing him for the first time: breath-taking. John’s mind is filled with that alternative reality again – this would be their house, where they would eventually retire. Not so soon, they’d have at least ten more years of crime scenes and rooftop chases, but then they’d move here and Sherlock would keep his bees and maybe John would finally start to make his blog posts into a proper collection of short stories and in the evenings they would sit by the lovely old fireplace, their knees touching, and then they would climb the stairs hand in hand and curl up in bed together and John would stroke Sherlock’s curls until they fell asleep. John can see it clear as day in his mind’s eye, and it doesn’t feel any less real than Mary and Emily do. He wants to tell Sherlock about it, he wants to tell him that it may not be what happened but that doesn’t mean it’s not real and _it doesn’t mean that I don’t—_

_—love you._

He wants to say it but he can’t, even if saying it would make his heart weigh a little less, because he would just transfer the weight to Sherlock and he can’t do that, not when Sherlock has already got so much to bear.

So he doesn’t say it, doesn’t say any of it. He butters his toast instead, and says,

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ve got an interview on Tuesday, actually.” 

Sherlock gives him a small smile, his shoulders relaxing a little, and John moves without thinking. His hand reaches for Sherlock’s, wrapped tightly around the handle of his mug. He touches his fingertips to Sherlock’s white knuckles. Sherlock startles but his hand unclenches under John’s touch. He looks at their hands and lets go of the mug, turning his hand so that their fingertips touch, feather-light. They stay like that for a small eternity, looking at each other, _finally, properly,_ until Sherlock covers John’s entire hand with his, warm and exquisitely gentle. There is only a brief moment of soft pressure and then he lets go, taking hold of his mug again.

“Eat, John,” he says, voice even. “I want to show you the hives, you’ve never looked at them properly yet.”

John takes a slice of toast with a hand that doesn’t feel like his. Sherlock watches him with soft eyes, and John loves him.

“All right,” he says, and takes a bite.


End file.
